Painted Scarlett
by LightThemUp
Summary: The Avengers are scattered in the aftermath of Captain America:The Winter Soldier and Iron Man 3. When a simple reconnaissance mission goes awry, tragedy strikes, and a deadly foe rises from the ashes, will the team be able to unite once more in the name of safety for mankind? Spoilers for the Avenger, CA:WS, and IM3 (duh). Team fic. Established Clintasha and Pepperony.
1. Chapter 1

**To my dear, faithful readers,**

**Thank you so much for your astounding patience! I haven't had time or energy to update recently due to some health problems, but I'm slowly starting to get back into the swing of things. This story, _Painted Scarlett_, is the first in a slew of Avengers related fics, as my one true fandom (OTF) has, and always will be MARVEL and I feel that in the past I've neglected it slightly.**

**_Painted Scarlett_ is team centered, with an emphasis on Natasha, Clint, and Steve. This is the first of a chronological journey set after the events of the Avengers and CA: The Winter Soldier but before Avengers: Age of Ultron. I later plan to start a second grouping concerning the team in the aftermath of AOU.**

**Pairings: Team Friendship, Clintasha (for the time being), Natasha x Steve Friendship**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: The Avengers are scattered in the aftermath of CA:WS and Iron Man 3. When what starts as a simple reconnaissance mission goes awry, tragedy strikes, and a foe rises from the ashes, will the team be able to unite once more in the name of safety for mankind? Spoilers for the Avenger, CA:WS, and IM3 (duh). Team fic. Established Clintasha and Pepperony. **

**Author: LightThemUp**

**Dedication: To Tasha and Tatyanna, who have always been there for me, no matter what.**

**Disclaimer: Last time I checked, MARVEL didn't send me the comic or cinematic rights for my birthday. Everything you recognize, I do not own.**

**If you're still reading, then here, have a virtual cookie cause you're awesome.**

...

PAINTED SCARLETT

"I'm an Angel with a shotgun, fighting 'till the war's won"

The Cab

...

The Autumn air shivered in the breaking day, sending rays of gentle sunlight to dance across buildings, cobblestone streets, and onto the rich golds and harsh crimsons of changing leaves. Stockholm was alive and bustling, even at an early hour, with cafes opening their expansive glass doors, business workers shuffling in suits and ties towards the train station, and children racing down alleys, braids and neat little blazers flying in the wind as they charged onwards towards a day of learning.

Steve Rogers was one of the early risers. His extensive stature, blond hair, and attire, a pressed pair of khaki's, a professional button down, and sunglasses, caused him to resemble a native Swiss. On this particular morning, he was perched in front of a little restaurant situated diagonally from the main thoroughfare. Waiters in white aprons bustled across the patio, serving fresh cappuccinos and warm pastries.

It was clear, even to the naked eye, that Steve was waiting, but it was unclear as to whom he was waiting for. He sipped his coffee, nibbled on a flaky corner of his croissant, skimmed a paragraph from the local newspaper, and gazed aimlessly at the passing crowd. This pattern continued for a good few minutes until the chair beside his was gently offset as a weight dropped onto it. Steve glanced sideways, his beverage at his lips, and raised an eyebrow. It was indeed who he'd been expecting, yet she looked rather abnormal. The woman's strikingly crimson curls had been tamed to a light brown that fell in soft waves across elegantly curved shoulders. A pair of hazel contacts masked jade green irises, and a pristinely white peacoat concealed, what Steve guessed to be, a stash of rather deadly weapons. Natasha Romanov smirked, the corner of her plum lips twitching slightly.

"Not what you were expecting, I presume?" She said softly, placing an emphasis on the vowels.

Steve chuckled. "No, not quite."

A smile danced at the corners of her lips. She quickly turned her gaze to the American, eyeing him with mild apprehension. "You're obvious to all but a commoner. Relax your shoulders, and uncross your legs. You look uncomfortably stiff," she noted critically after a quick once-over.

He did as he was told, and glancing sideways once more, received a discrete nod.

"What did you want to meet about? Your message said nothing but the basics," he questioned, attempting to change the topic.

She slipped him a folded piece of paper and leaned forward. A subtle, yet disastrously alluring, scent met his nostrils. "We can't talk here, not freely, at least. But something's come up, and you need to be on the next flight out. Hill and Stark are coordinating safe passage for you and Sam." She pointed at the slip of paper. "Go there tonight. Bring your bags. We need to be in New York by morning. The others are already assembled."

Steve glanced at the parchment.

_Arlanda Airport, east runway. 10 pm. Don't be late :)_

When he looked up, she had vanished, leaving nothing but a red napkin by his noticeably chilled coffee. That woman would be the death of him.

...

Dusk fell quickly that night. The sun seemed to fall beneath the sky as darkness pulled across the blank horizon. The designated airstrip, which sat on the edge of the main airfield, seemed eerily silent in comparison to it's bustling hub of a counterpart. A fueled Gulf stream sat idling on the runway, the gangway extended, an obsidian Escalade parked to its left.

Steve and Sam arrived a quarter of an hour ahead of schedule but were pleasantly surprised to see a small army of allies congregated at the base of the aircraft's steps. Natasha stood in the forefront, dressed in a tight, black ensemble complete with a set of dual thigh holsters. A jacket the color of her natural hair was thrown over one forearm while her opposite hand clutched at the thin frame of a Stark Enterprises cell phone. Maria Hill, clothed in a dark suit, stood formally to her rear, while Coulson was perched to her right, looking rather giddy amongst the sea of straight faces.

Natasha approached the duo as they stepped across the tarmac.

"They'll take your bags. We need to leave as soon as possible." She indicated a pair of the ludicrously conspicuous agents that had emerged from the depths of the jet.

Steve and Sam handed their bags over without fuss, keeping necessities on their persons. After brief greetings, including a warm hug from Maria and a firm clap on the back from Coulson, the party entered the plane. As soon as they had taken their respective seats, the jet roared to life.

They were well over the Atlantic before anyone spoke.

Natasha cleared her throat. "I suppose you're wondering why we called for an extraction?"

Sam replied sarcastically. "Yes, that would be a reasonable presumption."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her lips slowly curling into a smirk, before turning her gaze towards Agent Hill. Maria, once attention had fallen to her, began the briefing.

"We received intel last week regarding a wealthy French arms dealer by the name Louis Renee. According to our asset, the remnants of HYDRA's leadership are congregating at his chalet in Versailles this weekend for... a business meeting of sorts, disguised as an annual gala for the rich and famous. Our objective is to infiltrate the event, locate Renee, and apprehend as many HYDRA agents as possible. We've been directed to proceed with Extreme Prejudice."

There were several seconds of tense silence, the hum of the engine present in the air.

Steve broke the silence only seconds later with a surprisingly cheerful reply. "When do we start?"

...

Versailles was warm. And Natasha Romanov despised it.

Trailing beads of perspiration slithered down the small of her back as the jagged landscape whipped through her peripheral vision. Clint, at the wheel, appeared to be in a much better mood with a permanent smile emblazoned across his strong jaw, gray eyes flashing with mischief.

Natasha adjusted her garment for the umpteenth time. It was a long black number with an open back, slender straps, and plunging neckline that extended to the bottom on her ribcage. Stilettos bound her feet, light makeup adorned her face, and her hair, once again a vivid red, rested elegantly in a regal knot at the nape of her neck. Stark had questioned the location of her numerous weapons; an inquiry that resulted in choice expletives from both parties, Natasha wielding a bedside lamp, and Tony sprinting down the hallway, his shirt half buttoned, hair disheveled, and tie askew.

Clint looked, as Steve had put it, like a dapper gentleman. His suit was pressed obsidian with a formal white shirt, and his tie was the same shade of his partner's flaming locks. Clint's and Natasha's faces had been altered from their original forms via a new line of Stark technology. Natasha would be portraying Anastasia Vladimirovna, the daughter of a Russian aristocrat who was studying art and literature at the University of Paris. Clint was to become Aidan Mueller, Anastasia's long-term fiancé and heir to an extensive slew of international stocks and a vault bursting with precious royal jewels. The real Anastasia and Aidan had been stashed under a lock and key in an underground fortress beneath Paris. No real harm would or could befall them.

The Lamborghini purred as Clint tapped the accelerator, taking the winding roads at breathtaking speeds and relative ease. In the hands of a less experienced driver, Natasha would have been on the brink of panic, but Clint's eyes were sharp, and his hands were steady. She had nothing to fear.

There was a sharp crackle of static in Natasha's ear, a high pitched buzz, and a deep, throaty voice. Tony had turned on their comms.

"Little Red, do you copy? How's Bird Brain hanging on over there?"

Natasha resisted the urge to snort as Clint swerved to avoid a tree due to the aforementioned comment.

"We're just fine. Now leave us in peace unless you have something useful to say." Natasha calmly replied, her tone lighthearted but growing increasingly icy. There was a loud scuffle on the opposite end, a high pitched peal of laughter, and a new, feminine voice took control.

"Ignore Stark, Romanov," Maria Hill instructed. "Captain Rogers will meet you at the rendezvous point in an hour and a half. You know the signal of distress, and you know the stakes. Good luck." Clint and Natasha exchanged determined looks as Hill's voice faded away. Natasha checked the odometer. One mile left.

Clint turned down a long drive lit by bobbing lanterns and guarded by a pair of burly agents who demanded to see proof of identity. The duo displayed false identification and passed with ease, enrapturing the guards in an adventurous tale of their love struck journey in Paris. The French really were the romantic sort, for by the time the pair had pulled away from the gate, the larger guard was tearing up while the other distributed hurried congratulations on their engagement and shouted inquires on where to send flowers and gifts.

Natasha and Clint, still giggling, pulled to the valet and exited the vehicle, Clint offering Natasha his strong, calloused hand as she made her entrance. Clutching his arm, she went with him to the front steps, greeted those who inquired, and slid into the merry mass congregated between the formal ballroom and open patio. Crickets chirped merrily as a gentle breeze dusted the crowd from the rocky seaboard cliffs below. Several men had already caught Natasha's eye, many vilely staring at her rear.

The plan was simple. Attract Louis, infiltrate his office, and pull the names of all active HYDRA members in the area. Once the team went their separate ways, Clint would perch on the balcony and be the eyes and ears of the operation, scanning for suspicious activity and relaying information to either Natasha or the secreted team on the beach led by Steve and Sam. He'd also become Natasha's immediate backup if such a circumstance arose. Hill, Coulson, and Stark were running reconnaissance from a undisclosed location in Paris while Bruce and what remained of SHIELD medical stayed on standby only moments from the villa. It was routine, nothing new, yet Natasha's stomach was wound into a tight knot as though her intestines had decided to copy the format of a Twizzler.

Clint and Natasha broke apart, the former disappearing into the crowd in a ruse to find choice drinks while the latter morphed into the alluring manipulator she had been trained to be. Swaying her hips gradually with back straight and neck held high, Natasha strode through the party as though it was too frivolous an affair to be graced by her presence. Several suitors caught her by the elbow and asked for a dance, but she dismissed each with a pointed glare and a severe stomp to their toes by a stiletto's villainous heel. She had already entranced the target, for she could feel his eyes follow her every move.

As she turned towards a bar in the far corner, she met eyes with the target. Tall, dark haired, mid-forties. She was immediately reminded of Tony Stark in a not so glorious, avenging way.

Louis raised a dark eyebrow, blue eyes sparkling, as he lightly sipped his chilled bourbon. Natasha faked a blush, letting crimson seep into the fullness of her cheeks. She blinked bashfully, batting long, alluring eyelashes in a provocative manner. Louis waved an attending butler to his side, set his drink upon the clear platter, and made his way towards the spy.

Louis straightened his pressed Armani suit, wriggled his eyebrows, and gave a sickeningly polite bow as he approached Natasha.

"Excuse me, madame," Louis practically purred, a thick French accent encompassing his tone. "I dare say that I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before."

Natasha gave a sharp giggle, eyes flashing, lips curling slowly into a smile. With the flick of her tongue, a former Russian accent delicately tumbled from her lips. " No, no, I think not." She extended a slender hand, and he pressed a kiss to the exposed skin. "My name is Anastasia Vladimirovna. I daresay that you would be Louis Renee?"

Louis' mouth twitched appreciatively. "You are Russian? Splendid. It is an honor to meet you, Miss Vladimirovna...that is, I assume you are unmarried?"

Natasha laughed elegantly. "Yes, yes, I am unmarried. I'm in a romantic bind at the moment with a rather pesky heir, however. Very tedious." She raised her eyebrow seductively, sighed, and graciously accepted the glass of champagne offered to her by a chartered butler. She sipped, her piercing irises refusing to leave his.

Louis' cheshire expression grew. "Yes, that is most unfortunate. Maybe we should do something about such a thing. A woman with your beauty should not be held in romantic custody. Who is your unfortunate taker?"

Natasha gazed the crowd. "Ah, he must have stepped out for a moment," she stated after several tense seconds of deliberation. "Aidan Mueller is his name. Son of a British aristocrat."

"Yes, yes, I believe I saw his name on the guest list," Louis responded offhandedly. He quickly re-directed the attention onto Natasha. "Tell me, what is your profession? Business? A lawyer? Modeling, perhaps?"

Natasha gave a soft laugh. "My, my, Louis. You flatter me so. No, on the contrary, I'm a student at the University of Paris. Double major in Art and Russian Literature. I have a passion for the delicate and simple things in life, I suppose."

"I can see it. You strike me as a well-educated woman. Strong, independent... fierce." The words slithered seamlessly from his tongue. "Would you be interested in viewing my library? It's just upstairs, and I have an extensive collection of Russian notables that may interest you."

"Yes, that would be wonderful. In the least, it will be a timely escape from my captor."

Louis gave a hearty laugh. "Right this way, Miss Vladimirovna, or may I call you Anastasia?"

"Anya will do just fine, Louis."

...

Steve was beginning to get antsy.

Forty-five minutes in, and not a peep from Clint or Natasha. Steve and Sam had been positioned on the beach below the villa with a dozen armed men, purely as a source of "backup man-power." Steve had taken to watching the minute hand click slowly by, glancing from the industrial finish to the brilliant moon overhead, to the men secreted in the bushes, and back to the gleaming timepiece. He wasn't used to silence, stealth, and waiting. His MOA was to attack quickly, neutralize the enemy, and proceed forward. This was a spy type of ordeal, and Steve was a soldier. Sam didn't seem to be taking it too well either, picking at his nail beds like an teenage girl, or examining the wingspan of his suit, releasing an occasional grunt or sigh in frustration.

Just as the pair was beginning to lose their minds, a sharp buzz in his ear nearly sent Steve to the ground.

"Ouch!" Steve exclaimed, tapping the afflicted earpiece in curiosity. Sam looked at Steve, face contorted in bewilderment. There were several sharp coughs.

"Guys. Hawk to Foxtrot. Hawk to Foxtrot. Do you copy?" asked Barton.

"We read you, Hawk. What seems to be the problem?" Steve answered automatically.

"It's Little Red. Her comm just went silent, hence the mechanical squealing. The camera in her hairpiece has been switched off, too. I'm stuck in the main ballroom. If someone could get me a map or talk me through it, I could probably get to her. She might have been compromised, but if we storm the house now, it could blow the Op. Suggestions?"

Steve groaned. Natasha could certainly handle herself, but she was undercover in a massive villa covered in HYDRA agents with her only form of backup stuck in the mingling crowd. "Hold on that, Hawk. We'll get back to you."

"Rodger that." Barton fell silent.

"This is Foxtrot to Alpha Leader. Are you hearing this?"

"Loud and clear Foxtrot," the voice of Maria Hill filled his ear. " Stark has a blueprint of the grounds, but it's the security and defensive measures that have me concerned. They're standard protocol, but Clint would have to tackle some of them while in the main ballroom. My executive call is to hold all action. Give Little Red ten minutes. If communication is not restored, I'll relay instructions to Hawk and your men. We may have to organize an extraction. Alpha Leader out."

Steve and Sam exchanged wary looks. This could go one of two ways: badly, or deadly.

Reluctantly, he tapped a switch on his comm. "Hawk, this is Foxtrot. Hold all action. If communication or visual isn't restored in ten, Alpha Leader will walk you through the process. Over."

"Gotcha, Foxtrot. Hey, guys? When this is all over, who's up for food? We passes this little Bistro on the way in, and..." Clint's voice was silenced and a rattling BOOM filled the air. A fiery ball erupted from the Villa's turrets, raining pieces of flaming debris across the beach. Flames flickered in the upper floors, and windows burst from strain. Louis Renee's Villa had been bombed.

**Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a review (it really does make me write faster). Lets try and get this fic to 4 reviews!**

**Constructive Criticism (by PM or review) is ALWAYS welcome, but please, no flame. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys,**

**Thank you so much for all the feedback through reviews, favorites, and follows! A special thanks to Kur8Kami117 for being my amazing Beta reader. Love you!**

**This chapter deals with the aftermath of the explosion, and features with angst, and some darker topics; nothing bloody or vicious, but there are several uses of explicit profanity. The rating will stay at T for the time being.**

**This chapter is dedicated to my crazy genius friend (you know who you are) who manages to take practically all college classes and write, and is on course to graduate REALLY early from HS. You keep me motivated to write. You're amazing. **

**Without further ado, I present chapter two (yes, that was deliberate).**

Painted Scarlett

Chapter 2

…

Sirens pounded in her head, mirages flitting underneath twitching eyelids. Her body convulsed; taut, strained, unearthly. Dim voices reverberated in her pulsing eardrums; worried shouts, desperate cries. A warmth encased her form, a brilliant strength and power, lifting, clutching. Blood coursed through constricted veins. She could see him, tall, strong, cruel features and soft eyes. He caressed her hair, murmured her name, and pressed a kiss to her temple. The screams, the pain, the blood, the torture. Alexi. Then he was no more.

...

Natasha Romanov awoke with a start, ears haunted by desperate pleas of mercy. An erratic beeping filled the air, and she felt her neck forcefully jerked onto a scratchy pillow. Bruce Banner's face swam into view, smiling, reassuring, yet his pupils were clogged with masked concern. She opened her mouth to speak, to plead, to ask, but her airway was plugged with a sterilized pipe. The medical team quickly removed the tube. Natasha coughed and spluttered.

When she tested her voice, it was hoarse, foreign, and unknown.

"What...happened...?" She rasped, eyes watering.

"There was an explosion. Sam got you out," Bruce replied steadily.

Natasha's subconscious filled with brilliant flashes, an earsplitting commotion, a calm voice, and brown skin. Yes, she remembered. Sam had found her.

" The target? Renee?"

"Stark salvaged what he could on the hard drive. I haven't heard anything definitive yet. As for the man... second degree burns, a few broken ribs. His position in the library protected you from the worst of the explosion." Seeing Natasha's mouth open in protest, he quickly added, "and he's in Maria's hands now. He won't be going anywhere, anytime soon."

"And Clint..." Natasha managed, eyes bulging, throat strained. "Where? How? Is he alright?"

"Steve got to Clint in time, Natasha. He's in surgery. He's lost a lot of blood, but with the necessary transfusions, he'll make a full recovery."

Bruce handed her a glass of water, and she sipped appreciatively. As her voice regained its tone, and strength flooded her muscles, Natasha tried to sit up, clawing at the restricting sheets. "I need... to be there...when he wakes up," she managed, chest heaving with effort. A sharp pain in her stomach halted all motion. She reached for the afflicted area, just to the upper left of her navel, and was met not with cool skin, but by a thick stretch of gauze. Natasha glared at Bruce.

"Shrapnel." Bruce stated matter-of-factly. "Nothing endangering at the moment. A piece of our dear friend Renee's fireplace decided to take you on. You've got some minor burns too, mostly on your hands, a few on your cheeks and neck. You've lost a lot of blood, so you'll probably be lightheaded..." Bruce was silenced mid sentence as Natasha stood on wobbly legs, wrapping the hospital gown around her near naked body, making a valiant attempt to take several steps, only to collapse, head first, into rather muscular, and very warm body. Steve stared down at her, eyes hardened, lips pulled into a forced smile. He was blocking the door.

"Whoa there, Sleeping Beauty," he teased.

"Move."

"Natasha. I promise that you'll be the first to know when Barton wakes. But for now, you need to rest." Steve said, exchanging a furtive and tense look with Banner. A look that did not go unnoticed by Natasha.

"Damn you, Rogers."

"What can I say? It's my job to be annoying." He smirked. "Now, go lie down. You're injured, soldier."

Natasha gave him a crippling glare before replying with a sarcasm laced "aye, aye Captain," complete with a mock salute. Only then, with the reassurance of her partner's health, did she permit two nurses to escort her staggering form back to the bed, muttering Russian expletives under her breath all the same.

Only when the nurses had departed, and the remaining members consisted of Bruce, who was fiddling with a stack of charts concerning her vitals, and Steve, who had parked himself in a straight backed chair by the door, did Natasha allow her eyes to roam, hungry for information. She watched the pair intently in the deafening silence. There was something they weren't divulging, and Natasha was dead set to uncover it.

...

Tony Stark was having a particularly horrid day.

Routine Mission. Routine Tactics. What could go wrong? In all honesty, he very well believed that Maria Hill was all too convinced that because he'd mentioned that very same thing before the op had begun, that it had been doomed from the get-go.

Things had been splendid until all hell had broken loose. He and Hill had been running the system operations and had seen the villa combust in a fiery ball of terror. It had been pure adrenaline from there, directing medical and extraction personnel to and fro. The image of Natasha draped limply across Falcon's arms, abdomen bleeding, dress practically singed away, and Clint swung over Steve's broad shoulder, fastened in a fireman's carry, had been burned viciously into his mind. Since the incident, his only bout of sleep, a restless half hour, had been brusquely interrupted by JARVIS, alerting him that there was a waiting phone call from Fury.

"Nicky, how are you?" Stark had answered cheerfully, masking exhaustion.

"Can it, Stark. Someone bombed my best fucking agents. How the hell do you think I am?!" Fury shouted from the opposite line. "I need you to run a trace on the missile head. I'm sending the data to your system as we speak. This operation deals with national security, Stark, and more importantly, a matter defining the welfare of your team."

"On it, Eyepatch," Stark managed. With the denoting grunt on the other end, Stark modified his statement. "Too soon for nicknames, Nicky? Sorry, I thought we were on companionable terms. You know, like normal people?" With that, Stark cut the line in a direct bid to avoid Fury's wrath.

Tony quickly turned his attention to the message on the screen, and with the flick of his hand, magnified the image, throwing the projection into the air. He examined the wreckage, flitting between current news reels updating death tolls and estimated renovation values and SHIELD photographs of the impact site. Long range ballistics, fired somewhere off the northeastern seaboard, Tony concluded.

"17 reported dead, 30 in critical condition after the bombing of billionaire Louis Renee's residence last evening," a slender, blonde woman reported on BBC. "Manuel Valls, France's Prime Minister, denied comment this morning, but inside sources suggest that this may have been a definitive act of terrorism. Meanwhile, investigations into the source of the attack have been officially authorized between Interpol, the French Police system, and their acting foreign liaison, the FBI..."

Tony tuned her out, blasting "Back in Black" at a ludicrously obnoxious decibel.

He examined the missile, from the tail wings to the head. Nothing seemed abnormal or out of place until he noticed the barcode, or the lack thereof. It had been removed, not from the explosion itself, but by an expert hand before it had been fired, suggesting a stash of stolen warheads or a new line of illegal weaponry. Neither was a desirable option.

Tony zoomed in, studying the uniform ribbing, performing a detection scan for any identifying markings. Then he spotted it, the minuscule insignia by the left wing; a pair of crossed machine guns over the Soviet flag, a torch in the center.

Well, fuck.

...

When Clint opened his eyes, the world was sharper, vivid, as though it had been illuminated by a million pairs of stadium lights. The Earth failed to spin about him, and yet, his vision seemed to be playing tricks on his mind. He could see the foot of the bed, the crappy, second-class linoleum flooring, and the fluorescent lighting above. He took in the IV that punctured his right forearm, and the steady drip of fluid that descended from the bag, through the slender tube, and into his body. He wriggled his fingers, and toes, twitched his nose, and shrugged his shoulders. Everything seemed to be in working order. Yet, there was something distinctly missing.

He turned his head to the left, and gazed from the far, beige wall to the worn wooden door. He shifted his body again, discovering the unpleasant sensation of a catheter and the sharp stab of a ripped nerve in his upper thigh. After a brief examination, he discovered a large portion of his leg had been tied off by a thick adhesive wrap. First degree burns littered his upper arms and torso, one of a particularly nasty purplish pallor blossoming on his chest.

Natasha is going to kill me.

He coughed, and a wave of spasms wracked his body. Yet, the sound was obstructed, muffled, as through heard from miles away. That's bizarre. Clint had only experienced such a thing once before, as a young child. During his childhood in the circus, his first solo act as a master archer had drawn quite a large crowd. The applause had been deafening and had left Clint's ears ringing for several days. This was a similar ordeal, except the ringing was less pronounced, and the general silence was more pressing. A surge of panic coursed through his veins, and on the monitor, his vitals spiked, yet he couldn't hear the persistent beeping displayed on the screen. Eyes wide, fists clenched, he fought to sit up, only to meet a slender, scarred hand planted firmly on his chest. He took in her almond shaped eyes and fluff of crimson hair, mussed by fitful sleep. Deep bags pulled under her eyes, and her skin was pale and sunken. Worry lines creased her cheeks, one of them sporting a healing burn.

"Natasha," his lips formed her name, but as hard as he strained, the word could not be heard. Natasha's eyes were brighter than usual, watery even. She removed her hand and began to sign.

Several years prior, the pair had been ordered to escort a deaf scientist by the name of George Canterbury, and they'd been required to learn sign language. It had been easy enough for the pair, with Natasha's ten to fourteen language arsenal (depending on your definition of fluent), and Clint's respectable slew of six.

"Calm down, Clint." Natasha signed slowly. Her movements were a bit rusty, but her meaning was clear.

Clint struggled to raise his hands. "How long have I been out? What's happened?"

Natasha closed her eyes tightly before reopening them, blinking away forming tears. "You've been in a medically induced coma for a week and a half. The doctors say that there's no chance of recovery."

"Meaning?"

Natasha became very silent, her shaking palms dropped to her side. Steve, who had silently entered the room, reached to place a consoling hand on Natasha's shoulder, but she shooed it away.

Clint opened his mouth this time, body tight and seized with anger and panic. "Dammit Natasha, TELL ME!"

Natasha met his gaze, green irises connecting with churning gray. "The explosion destroyed your eardrums." She paused. "You're deaf, Clint."

...

**Yes, I know, I'm mean... leaving you guys on yet ANOTHER cliffhanger. **

**Please leave a comment. I always love to hear your thoughts, whether it's general feedback or constructive criticism, but please, refrain from the use of flames. Or I'll have to hunt you down with a fire extinguisher. **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **

**Thank you to all that reviewed , followed, and favorited. A special thanks to Kur8Kami117 who has stuck with me through this chapter, and has once again performed her duties as my** BETA** reader beautifully. **

**I'm so sorry for the wait on this _chapter._ High School is insanity.**

**A quick note:**

**"Боже мой" translates to "Oh my God"**

**I do not own anything you recognize. **

**Without further ado, I present chapter three of Painted Scarlett**

"Are you fucking kidding me, Stark?" Fury braced his forearms on the mahogany desk, vessels in his neck pulsing angrily. "Are you telling me that there's a Soviet terror ring knocking on our goddamn doors, and we're just finding out about it now?"

Stark, resolutely stoic against the verbal barrage, replied. "Yes, Nicky. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"And they have nuclear warheads?"

Stark raised his eyebrows dramatically. "Would a terror ring be a decent terror ring without the leverage of offensive and defensive technology?"

Fury massaged his pounding temples, collapsing backwards into a stiff leather chaise. "I need a goddamn holiday. And some whiskey. Plenty of whisky."

"We're a little short on time and whisky, _Eyepatch,_ so don't hold your breath waiting."

Fury shot the younger man a furious glare.

Stark merely shrugged it off, turning back towards the widescreen that was strewn with photographs, official reports, logs, and numerous articles containing data pertaining to the organization. He glanced again at the emblem. It looked a little too familiar to be comfortable. "What's our play, Nicky? We've got two agents down, an international arms dealer in critical condition, and a clusterfuck of data on a group who seems more ghostly legend than reality." He ticked each point off his fingers.

Fury studied the data. "Hill's working with analytics to get a game plan in place. We need to eliminate the threat before there's any more damage. How're my agents holding up?"

"Stalin's well on the way to recovery. Even if she wasn't, you know she'd be on this. She'd want to get the bastard who fucked up her partner. Barton's in it for the long run. I've been working on a prototype hearing aid that could theoretically take the place of his hearing, but we won't know for sure until it's tested."

Fury nodded, concern flashing in his eye, dissipating as rapidly as it had formed. If anyone could handle it, those two could. They'd been through hell and back. São Paulo, Budapest, Tomsk. The list could fill an entire hard drive, standing as solid evidence for the pair's soundness of operation. But this was a completely different ballpark.

"Keep me updated, Stark. This is a need-to-know _project,_ and I don't want to be the last to hear about it."

Stark nodded, his face uncharacteristically long and drawn.

...

There was a warm hand covering his own.

Slender fingers wound between his bruised and scarred knuckles, tracing little patterns across the damaged skin. He could feel her breath on his neck, her body's heat pressed to his side, and the soft tickle of her locks dancing across his ear. Natasha.

His ears were at the mercy of the world; closed and sheltered. His eyes roamed freely, noting the torrents of rain dumping from the sky. The silence, he found, was a comforting buffer between reality and the subconscious. He took a deep breath, air rattling the tubes secured beneath his nostrils. His partner was awake, eyes fastened intently on the television, perusing the French closed-captions zooming across the bottom of the screen. Natasha was tuned with rapt attention, brows furrowing and palms clenching on occasion.

He shifted. She glanced into her partner's face, remnant traces of makeup smeared beneath her eyes, skin pale and radiant.

Natasha had slipped beside him on the hospital bed the night before, curled into his body, clutching his gown as though it were a lifeline pulling her to shore. She'd fallen asleep like that, and Clint hadn't bothered to readjust. It would have been nice, in a better circumstance, Clint concluded.

He pressed a scratchy kiss to her forehead and sighed.

Natasha sat up, rolling her shoulders and cracking her back. Her position the night before had seemed anything but comfortable. She met his gaze, irises barring him to the core.

"How are you feeling?" she signed.

Clint managed a thumbs up, which she returned with a pointed glare as if to convey a typical dont-you-dare-fuck-with-me-Clint-Barton reprimand.

He smirked and intently gazed back. Nonverbals had grown to completely encompass their communication.

"What's new on our case?" He signed wearily, wriggling his hands to rid them of delayed numbness.

"Stark called. They've identified a Soviet m-i-s-s-i-l-e as the weapon of choice." She resorted to finger-spelling the term, her limited ASL repertoire falling short. They'd both brushed up, but standard lessons had a maddening tendency to lack advanced medical terms and military actions.

Clint raised a singed eyebrow. "That's unexpected. F-r-e-e-l-a-n-c-e? Or terror based?"

"Terror. Stark is running the data as we speak. Fury plans to brief us as soon as your hearing aids are fitted."

Clint repressed a snort. Over their week long stay in the medical facility, several specialists had been enlisted in order to restore, or at least minimally improve, Clint's state of hearing. None of the attempts could be classified as successful. His eardrums had lost 80% of their capacity, and even modern technology had failed to find an avenue that restored his sound to half the initial range.

Natasha eyed him, eyes hardened and cold. "Stark will come through on this; you know he will. He may be an arrogant arse, but he's a literal genius. Technology is his playground.

Clint relaxed into the pillows. She had a point. "Where are the others? Banner? Wonderboy? Point Break?" Clint quipped, testing his shaking voice, chapped lips breaking a smile.

Natasha's mouth twitched involuntarily. It was refreshing to hear his voice, shaking none the less, but calm, warm, and powerful. "B-r-u-c-e is at temporary HQ here in Paris. He left the hospital last night once he was sure you were in good hands. S-t-e-v-e is in either the waiting room or the cafeteria; wherever there's coffee. Intelligence shows that T-h-o-r is still on Asgard, though we have allies attempting to make contact." She signed in response.

She fingered the thin chain around her neck, a flash of silver catching his eyes. He reached for the necklace, smiling absentmindedly at the delicate arrow that fell into his palm.

He raised a questioning eyebrow, but Natasha cut him off with her hands. "It's not important where I got it, Bird Brain. Just shut up and take it as a compliment."

He smirked.

Natasha stretched once more and slid off the bed, feet landing noiselessly on the hard, cold linoleum. Clint missed her warmth immediately.

"I'll be right back," she signed. "I need coffee."

Clint nodded, watching his partner waltz out the room. He turned his eyes back to the television. A horribly boring Viagra commercial was playing. He let his mind wander, counting down the minutes until the news report returned.

The last few months. Jesus, it had been crazy. SHIELD crumbling, Fury's supposed death. He could remember his frozen fingers, his extraction request falling on silent ears. The frostbite had been bad enough. The shock he'd received upon his return had been even worse. He'd lost his brother, his wife, his handler. Hadn't that been enough? To discover the ruins of the Triskellion and hear Natasha's pleas of reason had been his breaking point. They ran freelance missions now, ordered and handled by the remaining allies of SHIELD. This had been their first op reunited as Strike Team Delta, and it had gone as wrong as fate could allow.

After a good five minutes, the television drew him back from his fitful reverie. A tall man in a long trench coat was standing beside the front gate of Renee's former residence, clutching a microphone to his chest.

Clint's eyes paced frantically as he fought to inhale the French subtitles.

"We have just received news on the nature of this devastating attack on French soil," the man stated dramatically, his expression comically drawn, hands gesturing wildly. "Ballistics from our local laboratory show that the weapon used in the attack against Billionaire Louis Renee's home late last Saturday night was a long range missile, fired from the northeastern seaboard. The Russian President denied comment yesterday, advising the press to rethink their proposition and focus their efforts in the Middle East." The feed cut to a harassed looking man, gray haired and balding, surrounded by several armed guards as he fought through the sea of reporters congregated around his residence.

The door creaked open, and Natasha slid through the gap. She carried two cups of coffee.

Clint's tense expression caught her attention. She gave him an inquisitive look, and he pointed to the television. "The reporters are blaming Russia," he signed.

"Боже мой," she said, the native language slipping from her lips as she set the cups on the bedside. Clint, although immune to her words, distinguished the meaning. He'd known her long enough.

"We should tell Fury," he signed. She nodded and pulled a phone from the pocket of her oversized hoodie. She held the slender device to her ear and quickly spoke into the mouthpiece, pausing occasionally for gulps of air. Clint found himself missing the husky tones of her voice.

"S-T-E-V-E," she finger spelled with one hand. Clint nodded in affirmation. After a few minutes, she hung up and handed Clint a steaming cup of coffee.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to have caffeine," Clint signed warily.

Natasha smirked, shrugging. "You're going to need it." She took a deep swig.

Clint stopped, the cup halfway to his chapped lips. "What do you mean?"

Natasha gave a slight smile. "S-t-e-v-e stopped me in the cafeteria. S-t-a-r-k is coming by this afternoon to fit you with the hearing aids. If all goes well, you'll be discharged after nurses change the wrappings on those burns. Once you go through a mandatory psych eval, you'll be released for reconnaissance. Fury won't put you in the field until those aids are fully functional. "

Clint groaned. The thought of another day surrounded by sterilized surfaces, crappy food, and stale air wanted to make him retch. He hated hospitals almost as much as she did.

"Oh, don't be such a crybaby," she reprimanded.

Clint rolled his eyes and started on his coffee. They sat there in companionable silence for a long while, sipping on the watery beverages, casting an occasional glance at the other, and mindlessly replaying what remained unsigned, as the sky released it's rage upon the stone streets below.

Natasha's chest pounded as anticipation seeped through her veins.

Steve stood to the far side, arms crossed and face set as though it had been frozen in a plaster mold. A tall, balding specialist was bent over a chart bearing all manners of squiggling lines and odd charts as Fury and Hill held a respectable distance, muttering in hushed tones. Stark was leaning over Bruce's shoulder as the latter made minor adjustments to a pair of slender tubes, no larger or longer than the eraser on a standard pencil. Clint was upright, alert, a bewilderment and excitement lit deeply in his eyes. The ghost of a smile glanced across sunken cheeks, and his hands twisted together and apart in an incessant pattern, itching desperately for the comforting touch of his recurve bow.

Natasha, whose face had mimicked that of a child on Christmas morning only a few hours previous, returned to it's resting state of hard, cold calculation.

She took in the buzz of the machines, the cheerful yet resolutely snarky tones of Tony, and the heaving breaths of Clint. The congregation had been informed to prepare for the worst. This was Clint's last shot at making a successful recovery. Two reconstructive surgeries had been performed, but the most either had done was increase the general swelling, further infect an eardrum, and gradually reduce the shrill ringing left from the explosion.

"I think we're ready," Bruce said abruptly, peering down his nose at the slender tubes resting in his open palm. The room fell silent, and Natasha moved to sign a hurried translation to Barton, whose eyes and attention stalked the scientist's hands as though they were coveted game to be caught.

The specialist, whose receding hairline was noticeably prominent in the falling light of day, nodded in affirmation. "His vitals are steady. I see no problem with proceeding with the phase one test."

Stark smirked. "Ready Legolas?"

Clint glared.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Natasha stomach clenched and gave an untimely roll. Steve uncrossed his arms and took a step closer to the bedside. Fury and Hill exchanged mirrored glances. Bruce and the specialist approached Clint, who's nerves had calmed, his jaw set in determination.

"He's not expecting this to work" a voice nagged in Natasha's subconscious.

"But it will. It has to work," her brain fought back.

Bruce tilted Clint's head, and the specialist slowly inserted the device. Clint winced and the doctor ceased, but the agent waved him onward. Clint knew pain. This was simple child's play.

Natasha extended her hand, her slender palm covering Clint's sturdy and bruised fingers. Relief flooded his face as panic drifted away.

Tense seconds clicked slowly by. The first earpiece had been placed accordingly. Natasha released a pent breath she had not known she'd been holding.

The specialist set to work on the opposite side, and Natasha risked a glance at Tony, who's facade of boyish fun and games had been replaced by a thick coat of concern that etched the worn lines in his sharp features.

Clint hissed as the second tube hit the irate and swollen drum. Natasha's grasp on his hand grew a bit tighter.

The doctors stepped away, muttering to Tony, who fiddled with a small box. He paused before selecting a brilliantly green button, pressing hard and fast. There was a sharp intake of breath, a shrill squeal of static, and a deep sigh.

Natasha was the first to react, standing, looking her partner straight in the eyes. "Clint."

Clint jumped, blinking. "Natasha?"

Heat rushed to her fingers, her body a single, pulsing nerve. "Clint. Can you hear me?"

Clint gave a quick nod, his body collapsing in relief.

There was a momentous guffaw as Tony released a righteous whoop, Bruce and the specialist sagged in sheer delight, and Steve offered hurried congratulations, a smile stretched from ear to ear. Fury and Hill stepped from the room, the latter muttering very quickly to the former, who typed fanatically into a smart phone before making a call. As the crowd was reigned in, and the chaos settled, the congregation filed slowly from the room, Steve closing the door gently in their wake.

Natasha, who had fought to remain emotionless, felt the resolve drain from her pores. She clutched Clint tightly, as though he would be ripped away, as panicked, heaving breaths racked her abdomen. Clint pulled her forward, nestling her scarlet head upon his chest.

Natasha's walls had broken. She'd lost. Shed loved. All she knew had crumbled. Her life, in ruins. And her last piece of sanity, Clint, had been taken, ripped violently away. For the first moment in what seemed to be centuries, Natasha inhaled his musky scent of worn leather and pine trees. She calmed.

Clint ran his thumb across her cheek, around her jaw, pulling her face to his. Their noses touched, breaths shared as one.

"Natasha." Her name fell from his lips like a prayer: quiet, wistful, and longing.

Her lips ghosted his cheek, her warm breath tickling the slight stubble encroaching upon his upper lip. His hands found her neck, pulling her ever so softly, to meet him.

They met in a fiery caress, his feverish lips grasping for dominance. His hands tangled in her locks as her fingers slithered slyly into his short, mussed spikes.

Contentment settled in the pit of her stomach, a bursting orb of acceptance.

In her arms, he was safe, and she in his.


End file.
